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Bees Are Not My Friends

So I guess I had another weird reaction to a bee sting. At least I think it was a bee sting. I never actually saw a bee. But I get the whole localized reaction thing, which this time bordered a bit on the allergic thing with the troubled breathing and lightheadedness. It took some sleuthing, combined with some sudden swelling along my neck, and combined with the memory of another recent experience along my shin (what’s with me and the bees all of a sudden?), but I think I’ve put the pieces together, and — after ruling out swollen lymph problems, menengitis and other scary things — my doctor agreed it may have been a bee sting and put me on a regime of steroids.

But apparently bees are not my friends.

Which is kind of a bummer, really.

Because I truly liked bees. There’s a tree we planted in our side yard years ago that sits right outside our living room window and it’s filled with bees every August and September. I mean filled. They come and get the pollen from the fluffy white blooms that the tree produces. It’s actually really beautiful, and I love sitting there and watching them out the window. And I love how they make the tree look so lush and full the rest of the year. But now I guess I really do need to be careful to watch from inside. (Neither of my reactions was due to one of my “tree bees.” But now I’m just more wary of them, I guess.)